


psychopomp

by abatt0ir



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Human Beetlejuice, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Sharing Clothes, Smoking, beetlejuice is a sleazebag, we're going for romance cliche bingo over here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25809130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abatt0ir/pseuds/abatt0ir
Summary: sai·kow·paamp (noun) a guide of souls to the place of the dead.--Two weeks before Miss Universe, 1939, Maria Romero - Miss Argentina - is barely keeping it together. The pressure of perfection is nearly overwhelming, and the only thing keeping her going is the prospect of winning the title - and there is no other option.Two weeks before Miss Universe, 1939, Beetlejuice, masquerading as a reporter covering the pageant, is sent aboveground by Juno to help shepherd Maria from the world of the living to the world of the dead. He knows her suicide is an inevitability - there is no other option.Of course, a lot can happen in two weeks.(a beetletina rp)
Relationships: Miss Argentina | Receptionist & Beetlejuice, Miss Argentina | Receptionist/Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> clair (clairjohnson.tumblr.com) and i screamed at each other on discord about the elaborate headcanon that beetlejuice was the one who guided miss argentina to the other side (involving him posing as a human) and then it seemed like a crime NOT to rp it, so. 
> 
> here we are.

Betelgeuse, shockingly, is no one’s nominee for employee of the month, year, century, or eternity - that much is _absolutely_ certain. How he managed to get the Guide position he’s holding onto by the skin of his teeth is anyone’s guess - he’s able to talk his way into and out of most situations, but Juno is a tough customer, and no fool either. Whatever the reason - he prefers to live an unexamined death - spending two weeks aboveground is an opportunity he’s not planning on squandering. The assignment is easy enough; he’s done it a hundred times before: keep a weather eye on a soul as it transitions from the living phase to the _deader than the proverbial doornail_ phase, and handle any post-mortem confusion, if necessary. And if the enterprising man (or ghost) samples the earthly pleasures of the living world while he’s up there, no one is the wiser. 

Assuming the guise of a living person isn’t necessarily difficult for a poltergeist of skill, but it _does_ require concentration. He allows the color to leach back into his face, his hair, smooths the strangeness of his skull of a face, and snakes eyes. It takes work, reminding a centuries old heart what it felt like to beat, and willing warmth into limbs that are so long dead they might as well be dust. The illusion isn't perfect - his nails are a little too long, his smile a little feral, but breathers don't pay much attention to the strange things in their midst, and a dead man in a convincing _enough_ disguise won't raise any hackles.

_"Cut and dry suicide, shouldn't be any problems," Juno had said dryly, handing him a folder full of paperwork both of them know he will never look at or fill out, "Wear something that won't attract attention, will ya? You look like a circus tent."_

He knows how to drive about as well as he knows how to dress, which is well enough to avoid suspicion, but would hardly hold up to intense scrutiny. In his rumpled button down and guide coat (now free of dirt and bugs, much to his personal chagrin), he blends in about as well as any dead guy can, and the ugly green car he'd parked haphazardly in the hotel parking lot definitely _looked_ enough like a Ford to the casual viewer. 

They'd likely be more distracted by the disheveled reporter standing beside it patting down his own pockets like a lunatic, anyway. Betelgeuse was never one for organization, and the scrap of paper Juno had given him with his target's name and room number on it, had likely gone the way of so much loose change and Zagnut wrappers. After a moments rummaging, he extracts it with triumph. _Maria_ it says, in Juno's spidery handwriting, _Rm. 1056_. With these directions in hand, and a cigarette clenched between his teeth, he slides through the lobby of the hotel and into the elevator, prepared to meet today’s little old lady needing a shepherd to the afterlife.

It's a living (oh, the irony).

\---

The first day at the Miss Universe competition had gone by in a blur of introductions, meetings, and check-in. The pageant didn’t officially kick off until next week, but the organization running the event wanted to make sure the girls performed like finely tuned cars – or at least that’s how one of the gentlemen had put it. Maria wasn’t sure she appreciated being compared to a car, but she understood the sentiment – and had been compared to much worse. The pressure to be perfect wasn’t lost on her nor was this a new concept. She’d been performing in pageants since she was a child. Perfect smile, perfect laugh, always doing her best _to be her best_ – because what other option was there?

Maria looked up from the empty sink in her hotel bathroom to two wide, brown eyes staring back at her in the mirror. She felt like she was going to vomit. It was one thing to perform in local competitions, it was a completely different ball game to be at Miss Universe. She’d never left home before, and now here she was, representing her entire country to be judged on her level of _perfection_.

The knock at the door tore Maria’s gaze from the mirror – that must be room service. She’d called down to the front desk for some ice. Chewing on that always helped settle her stomach. Shrugging on a sheen robe over her night gown, she hurried to answer the door, surprised to see the hall empty when she opened it.

“Hello?” Maria poked her head out into the hallway just in time to see the red jacket of a bellhop disappear behind a corner. Nudging the doorstop with her heel to keep it in place she stepped out, barefoot, onto the rug. Normally, she wouldn’t leave her room in such a state of undress, but her nausea was bubbling up again and she needed that ice.

“Hello – sir! Excuse me, did you just knock on…” Maria let out a yelp when she heard a door slam – her initial surprise morphing into panic. “Oh no.” She whispered, turning back down the hall towards her room. “Oh, no, no, no.” As much as she’d hoped the door wasn’t locked, it was, and no amount of tugging was going to convince it to open.

 _“Estúpida puerta de mierda!!”_ she yelled, giving the door a swift kick with the bottom of her foot. Defeated, she backed away and pushed some loose curly strands of hair from her face. She’d have to go down to the front desk and ask them to let her back in.

\---

Something about being in a hotel feels remarkably like home - hundreds of doors, all exactly the same, slightly labyrinthine halls, esoteric vibes, it's just like being in the Neitherworld, sans the distinct air of hopelessness (the motel he's shacking up in, on the other hand, reeks of despair - just the way he likes it). On the way to the tenth, he takes a moment to settle into his person disguise, straightening the rumpled lapels of his coat, arranging the "credentials" he's got tucked into the pocket - there is no "Bernard 'BJ' Johnson" at the Los Angeles Daily News, but Betelgeuse is, if anything, _very_ convincing

Which will be helpful, given he's not bothered to learn what kind of event he'll be "covering", nor Maria's involvement in it - why bother? He doesn't plan on doing much beyond laying eyes on her once a day, making sure she's steadily sliding towards oblivion, and that once she does kick it, that she's got enough good sense to draw a door. Haunting a hotel sounds _exhausting_.

Rounding a corner, two things occur to Betelgeuse simultaneously. One, that room 1056 should be directly ahead of him, and two, that there is a young woman desperately trying to get _in_ \- and _what_ a woman. She's a mess, which is just fine in Betelgeuse's book, her dark hair mussed, a hectic flush on her impossibly high cheekbones, dressed in a silky nightgown that, while not sheer, left very little to the imagination. Watching with the same sort of predatory interest with which a cat might watch a mouse, he thoroughly enjoyed watching her take out her frustration on the door - if this was Maria, he was going to have to rethink his time aboveground.

(He could think of far better ways for her to vent her frustration, _but_ , names first).

"Hey, hey, _hey_ , you keep that up and yer gonna hurt yourself," he ground out by way of introduction, ambling towards her with all the affable charm of a wolfish Rudolph Valentino "If you don't mind my saying, and even if you do mind I'm still ganna say it, you got yerself a _filthy_ mouth, dollface. This your room, or you tryin' ta break in? Either way, I can help you with that, just you say the word."

His machine gun patter tended to be disorienting, which was exactly how he generally likes his breathers - confused and breathless, less likely to ask questions that way. Pasting a smile in his face that he would call "charming" and Juno would call "threatening" he leans against the wall, using his significant size to loom over her, just the _slightest_ bit

\---

_”Hey, hey, hey, you keep that up and yer gonna hurt yourself.”_

Heat rushed to Maria’s cheeks at the realization that she’d been caught in a rather _unladylike_ act. Her first thought was that the bellhop had come back, excellent timing on his part, and she whirled around with an apology on the tip of her tongue. An apology that was swallowed back down when the man that was strolling leisurely towards her was very obviously _not_ a hotel worker. He was on her in a few long-legged strides, and she took a subconscious step back.

_If you don't mind my saying, and even if you do mind I'm still ganna say it, you got yerself a filthy mouth, dollface. This your room, or you tryin' ta break in? Either way, I can help you with that, just you say the word."_

Dollface? Maria couldn’t help the bewildered smile that started to play at the corner of her lips at his gravel laced joke, _she assumed it was a joke_ , to break into her own room. He vaguely reminded her of a car salesman - and she wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t one.

The man leaned against the wall at her side, looming over her with a smile that showed off too many teeth.

She took another step back. Then she smiled.

Smiled, because that’s what you were _supposed_ to do with unfamiliar and _mildly intimidating_ men. God forbid you got on the bad side of the wrong one. But, as physically foreboding as this man was, she didn’t feel threatened. Especially not when he was peering down at her with a pair of deceivingly amiable blue eyes.  
“I’m terribly sorry you had to hear all that – I thought the halls were empty, and I wasn’t aware so many Americans spoke Spanish. I’ll have to keep that in mind.” Her eyes moved to the door he was resting near and her apologetic expression morphed into one of humorous frustration.

“Ah, yes, this is my room alright.” Maria said, giving the wood a small knock with the back of her hand. “Locked myself out like a fool. As helpful as breaking into my own room sounds, I doubt the hotel would appreciate it. I was just on my way down to the lobby to get a new key…”

She stepped around him, turning her head to keep her gaze fixed on his face as she started towards the elevator. “I’ll be even _more_ of a fool if I’m late for the evening gown rehearsal – are you here for the Miss Universe pageant Mr…?”

\---  
Being dead, especially being dead for as long as Betelgeuse had been dead, one's social graces tended to atrophy from disuse. In the Neitherworld, there was no need for such things - dead was dead, and feelings were a luxury only the living could afford. Even a Guide in Juno's employ, who made frequent trips aboveground, were meant to have little opportunity to flex their "people skills" - the rules were that one should become visible and interact with a target only if _completely necessar_ y. But Betelgeuse was never really one for rules.

If he were a better man (if he was a man at all, some might argue) he might have realized that approaching a woman, alone, in an empty hallway, with suggestions of petty crime might not make for a stellar first impression. He might also have tried to make himself appear less imposing, less sharp-toothed and hungry-eyed, but where was the fun in that? Her nervous half-step back makes the monster in him ghoulishly gleeful - but then she _smiles_.

(No one smiles at him.)

It's genuine too, he's seen enough dead eyes and dead smiles to know live ones when he sees them. _“I’m terribly sorry you had to hear all that – I thought the halls were empty, and I wasn’t aware so many Americans spoke Spanish. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”_ It belatedly occurs to him that not all breathers are polyglots - should probably keep the Olde English and Latin to himself. He laughs his coffee-grinder laugh. "No, no, no, darlin, I do love me a lady with a little spit in 'er, in any language. Bit of a world traveler, myself, picked up some things here and there, _si sabes a lo que me refiero."_

When she confirms that this is, in fact, her room, meaning she likely is the girl he's after - well, it's a shame, really. She doesn't look at day over twenty-two, with her bare face and slightly baffled smile. Only the good die young, isn't that something they say? Shrugging internally, Betelgeuse tamps down the momentary slightly sick feeling until it's good and gone.

(Side effect of wearing a human suit - humanity occasionally creeps up on you. _Disgusting_.)

Rules be damned, he could just unlock her door - his powers haven't been muzzled and it'd certainly be _impressive_. But she's already moving towards the elevators, and he trots after her, hands in his pockets. "Whatever you say, darlin'," he smirks affably, catching up to her easily on much longer legs. When she asks his name, he blinks, frozen for a moment, before slapping his coat searching for -

"A-ha! _Here_ we go-" he pulls out his credentials, already badly creased and a little dirty from its time in the depths of his pockets, "Bernard Johnson, Los Angeles Daily News. _Don't_ call me Bernard," he makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, "-sounds like a dog's name, Bernie is worse, and Mr. Johnson was my father. BJ'll will do just fine, all my friends call me BJ." Arriving at the elevator doors, he jams his thumb into the "down" button then holds out his hand for her to shake (not bothering to fix the ragged nails, or his too-cold skin). "Coverin' this here, uh," _pageant_ , she had said _Miss Universe pageant,_ and his eyes light up at the notion, "this here pageant for the ol' news rags."

\---

The grate of his voice paired with her native language sent an unexpected shiver down to her toes. He wasn’t a traditionally handsome man, but not unattractive, and he had an undeniable charm about him. A charm that started to melt away any tension she’d felt earlier and replace it with a comfortable ease. Maria wondered if he had a sister ( _maybe a daughter?_ ) that was performing in the competition. Not a wife, though – married women couldn’t participate. There weren’t a lot of reasons for a single man to attend Miss Universe.

Her initial smile widened as he caught up to her, their steps matching as they approached the elevator. She watched him rummage through the pockets of his large, brown coat and bring out a badge.

_Bernard Johnson, Los Angeles Daily News._

**_Los Angeles Daily News._ **

Oh god, he was a _reporter_. Maria felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her and she immediately tightened her robe over her night gown – suddenly very aware of how inappropriately she was dressed. The ease she’d felt moments earlier evaporated and she was left feeling so vulnerable again. Stupid. Yelling the way she had in the hallway.

“Wow, ha, a reporter?” her voice cracked slightly and she cleared her throat. “I hope this first introduction will stay between just us Mr. J-, sorry, BJ.”  
Her gaze dropped to his hand, large and a little ragged, and she took it in a firm grasp. _It was much colder than she expected_. Maria looked back up and presented her best photo ready smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Maria Romero – Miss Argentina.”

\---

For all his lack of social graces, Betelgeuse is fairly tuned into body language - it's one of the few things that doesn't change when you die ( _unless_ your body is too mangled to emote, in which case, he's at a loss). He considers himself something of a student of the human condition - mostly because it makes them far easier to manipulate, if one understands what is being said without _being said_.

So when her demeanor changes entirely and her smile fades, he's quick to recognize the high color on her cheeks and sudden modesty as embarrassment. It belatedly occurs to him that aboveground, women don't usually walk around with strange men, and certainly not in their nightclothes - she probably had a reputation to maintain, and quite a bit at stake, what with the _pageant_ and all.

(It occurs to him, but _doesn't_ change his behavior.)

 _“I hope this first introduction will stay between just us Mr. J-, sorry, BJ.”_ He likes the sound of his initials in her mouth, even if she is clearly uncomfortable. He cackles, "Relax, doll, I won't report on your foul mouth or penchant for violence," he puts his hand up in mock boy scout salute, "that's a secret I'll take to my grave."

Her hand is warm, or maybe his is just cold, and she shakes it firmly, pasting a smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Behind them, the elevator dings. "Well, Miss Tina, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is gonna be gettin' a load of you in the hotel lobby dressed like _that_ ," he shrugs out of his coat, mentally patting himself on the back for magicking away the centuries of dirt usually crusted to its hem, and as familiar as you please, drapes it over her shoulder, "save that for the swimsuit competition, you know what I mean?"

He thumbs the lobby button and goes to work rolling up his shirtsleeves, standing likely too close for comfort in the confinement of the elevator car. His coat dwarfs her, and it makes the predator in him smile toothily. Fixing her with his uncanny blue gaze, Betelgeuse gives her a once-over, a barely-concealed leer playing over his lips. "So," he asks conversationally, "you think you're gonna win or what?"

\---

_"That’s a secret I'll take to my grave."_

Her shoulders relaxed at his words and she let out a breath, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in. Not that she had any reason to believe a word he said, but Maria had a keen sense for when people were lying to her, and he didn’t seem to be pulling the wool over her eyes. Her gaze moved from his face to the elevator when it dinged and she walked in alongside BJ.

 _"Well, Miss Tina, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is gonna be gettin' a load of you in the hotel lobby dressed like that,"_ Tina? Her smile grew again, the nickname being one she liked instantly. She was Miss Argentina after all – so it was fitting. Without saying a word Maria let him drape his large coat over her shoulders. She adjusted in the cavernous fabric, completely missing his stare, and eased her arms into the much wider sleeves – the tips of her fingers just peeking out at the ends. Now fully covered in his clothing she could pick up the heavy scent of cigarettes, but there was something else there, too. Something earthy and rich, with a hint of warmth (incense?) buried just beneath. She liked it. She liked it a lot, actually. Much more than the nauseating cologne Antonio liked to wear.

God, she hoped he wasn’t down in the lobby when she arrived. Maria had never given Antonio a reason to think she’d leave him, or worse, _cheat_ , in the few years they’d been dating - but walking out of the elevator in her nightgown wrapped in another man’s coat would be a hard one to explain. Even if the reason behind it _was_ completely innocent.

“Thank you, this is very kind. Long enough to wear for the evening gown portion of the competition, don’t you think?” She laughed and brought her small hands up to wrap the coat around her chest tighter, turning in time to catch BJ rolling up the sleeves of his white button up. With the coat out of the way Maria got a much better look at him, and was momentarily ashamed at the bubble of arousal that started in her belly. He was on the larger side, tall with strong arms and a noticeable gut, and there was a thick air of masculinity around him that had her toes curl. She looked away quickly.

_"You think you're gonna win or what?"_

Maria nearly swallowed her tongue at the forward question. _Every day of her life_ had been in preparation for beauty pageants. From her strict diet, ballet lessons, and speech classes – she’d practically been raised to win Miss Universe, and she intended to do just that. Not giving herself time to reply with a _socially appropriate_ answer of ‘Oh I do hope so!’ Maria turned her dark eyes back to his blue ones and set her brow low.

“I’m going to win.” She said, her voice even. On hearing the words leave her mouth she eased up, and faked a curl of her lips to smooth her previous statement. “If I try my best, _that_ _is_ , I’m sure I’ll do well. There are a lot of very impressive women here – so I’ll have my work cut out for me.”

\---

He likes the way she looks in his coat. Very nearly swallowed up by it, wrapping it tight around her as though it gives her comfort, and smiling at him from over the collar. He swallows, hard.

In the Neitherworld, it is well known that a rose is never as lush or as lovely as it is the moment before it begins to wither and brown - sometimes things are never quite so full of life as they are just before they die. Betelgeuse remembers with fondness the cholera epidemic, kissing girls with hectic, feverish blushes high on their cheeks, teeth pink with blood, and their eyes glassy and unfocused. In the lamplight, the fine sheen of sweat on a brow could be mistaken for a dewy, youthful glow - he'd whisked plenty off to his bed before he put them in their graves.

Suicides, in his experience (and he certainly has experience), are generally tedious affairs - breathers who have given up are often more or less ghosts already, floating through their miserable existences, tied tenuously to the physical plane only by a meatsack. Maria - _Miss Argentina_ \- is two weeks away from her death, and yet she seems remarkably alive. Lush and lovely - he wonders when she will begin to wither, and feels, well. Feels _something_. A pang, vaguely resembling remorse.

(Wear the meat suit, get the meat experience).

At her joke, Betelgeuse barks with unexpected laughter, the thread of regret dissipating like smoke, "No problem, babe, no problem at all." Easy on the eyes and _funny_ to boot, this one was going to be trouble, he could tell. With his sleeves rolled up, his incongruous duo of wristwatches glinting in the low elevator light, he hooks his thumbs into his pockets and meets her steady gaze. _“I’m going to win.”_

To say he's taken aback would be an understatement. The look she fixes him with is one of certainty, he can hear iron in her spine and fire in her heart, and it suddenly seems desperately unfair that this woman should be bound for the slab. Even as she natters on, trying to couch the statement in "if's" and "but's", he feels the crackle of interest at the base of his skull - he wants to see more of that, more of that focus and confidence, wants to see where it comes from, wants to crack her open and see what's broken inside of her. "Of course, of _course_ ," he soothes. The elevator door dings, doors sliding open and he waits for her to exit.

(It might seem like a gentlemanly gesture - in reality, its pervert muscle memory. Can't look at someone’s ass if you're in front of them. Sadly, hers is obscured by his coat).

"You know, I _am_ gonna need that back, at some point," he indicates the coat, digging distractedly in his trouser pockets for his crumpled packet of cigarettes, placing one in his mouth. "Smoke?"

\---

His assuaging tone allowed the tension in her to ease a bit, and her focus shifted to the glinting on his wrist. Two watches? Why would anyone need more than one? The ring was the second thing to catch her attention, the bright red stone shining prominently on his index finger. Before she had a chance to ask about any of his _accessories_ – the elevator dinged. Maria glanced to his face and smiled politely at his invitation to go first. Americans still had their manners, it seemed.  
Maria peered around the lobby, holding her breath while she tried to spot Antonio. He wasn’t there – good. He would probably come check on her after rehearsal. He was a good man, really, she loved him, but she wasn’t ready to explain _this_ situation.

_"You know, I am gonna need that back, at some point,"_

She turned back to BJ and raised her brows, giving him an ‘oh really?’ look. “If you say so,” Maria teased lightly while rolling up the sleeves on the coat, “I really think it’s my style.”

When the pack of cigarettes were presented her eyes dilated. Yes, she _very much_ would like a smoke, but pageants, Miss Universe included, tended to look poorly at young women who drank and smoked. Not the type of _girl_ they wanted representing their competition. Later, probably at night, she could sneak off and have one on her own. Maria licked her lips quickly and smiled, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

“Oh, no thank you. I don’t smoke.” She lied. Slowly, she started to step backwards towards the front desk, but kept her eyes on him.

“Will you be at the evening gown rehearsal? They usually let a few photographers in – I could give it back to you there.” The corners of her mouth tipped up and she held her arms out to her sides in playful imitation of a ballet pose. “If you do watch, I’d be happy to hear your feedback on my walk. I’m sure they have you reporting on a lot of pageants, _Mr. viajero del mundo.”_

Maria gave him a soft, parting wave before turning from him and heading towards the front desk to get her new key.

\---

The lobby of a hotel attached to a convention center hosting a beauty pageant is, to put a fine point on it, _sleazebag paradise_. Several polished young women mill about the room, heels clacking on marble floors, all straight white teeth and immaculate hair and neat, tailored dresses. True to form, Betelgeuse smiles wolfishly at a few of them, reveling in their horrified stares - but finds his attention drawn back to the woman wearing his coat, cracking jokes at him like they're old friends. "Might look better on you than it does on me, but it's the only one I got, and I ain't one to share."

She politely declines the offer of a cigarette, but he catches her eyes following it, and snickers indulgently. Breathers did love their addictions - his disguise meant the dizzy hit of nicotine was stronger than usual, the taste lingering on his teeth and tongue - he lights a match with a flick of his ragged nail, and exhales a slow, lazy stream of smoke from his nostrils. "Sure ya don't," he smiles toothily, but there's something hungry in it, " _Nice_ girl like you." He wondered, vaguely, if she abstained from _everything_ \- if her only vice was drinking Shirley Temples or chewing bubble gum, how deep the veneer of Beauty Queen with a capital 'B' went.

Might be fun to find out.

Juno would kill him, if she knew - that much was certain. Making contact with his target was one thing, but making plans to see her again? A fireable offense. The rules, as far as he'd bothered to pay attention, were to interfere _as little as physically possible_. He couldn't alter the inevitability of her death even if he tried, he was physically bound to that, but _affecting_ the flow of events with his presence represented a mountain of paperwork. But that was a problem for future Betelgeuse - and it's not like he's planning on interacting with her again after the return of his coat.

(Right? Right.)

"Sure, sure, I'll pick it up there, now _don't_ ," he gestures at her, clearly dwarfed by his much larger coat, "stretch it out, ya hear me, toots?" and then brays with laughter at his own stupid joke, also making a mental note to find out _where_ and _when_ the evening gown rehearsal is.

Some poor PA is going to get interrogated.

"Oh, I'll watch you alright," he leers, trying to bite back the spectacular creepiness of that statement and barely managing. _“I’m sure they have you reporting on a lot of pageants, Mr. viajero del mundo.”_ He leans against a wall as she drifts away, tipping his hat in what, on a gentleman, might be a gentlemanly display. "Nah, this is my first one. You'll have to show me the ropes, doll. Normally I work in, uh, whaddya call 'em?" He smirks. " _Obituaries_."

He doesn't return her wave, just nods, eyes hooded, smile predatory. "See ya."

\---

In a mad dash that would have impressed an Olympic runner, Maria made it back to her room, key in hand, and dressed for the evening gown rehearsal. She didn’t have time to throw on a full face of makeup, so brows and some mascara would have to do – it was just a test run, anyway. After giving herself a final apprising look in the mirror she turned to leave her room, only to stop fast in the doorway.

_His coat._

Maria had thrown it onto the bed in her rush to get ready, but now that everything was more or less in order, she folded it neatly over her arm. _Had she been too friendly with him?_ Maybe. She wanted to chalk it up to the frazzled state he’d caught her in earlier – nerves. That had to be it. Once she returned his jacket, and her veil of perfection was neatly put back in place, there’d be no reason to speak to Mr. Johnson in anything beyond a professional capacity. With a decisive nod, she left her hotel room and headed towards the elevators.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a girl and a ghost make plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how much research Clair had to do about Miss Universe? A lot, that's how much. 
> 
> I, on the other hand, did nothing.

At 1pm on the dot Miss Argentina arrived at rehearsal. She stood backstage with the other 80 some odd contestants as the Master of Ceremonies broke down the schedule for the next few days, and the order the girls would be called in. She smiled and nodded along dutifully, a mirror of the other women, then sat in her assigned seat. It was a small vanity with a few assorted beauty products laid neatly in the center. Carefully, she hung BJ's jacket over the back of her chair, making sure there weren't any noticeable new creases (not that she thought he'd notice if there were.)

Turning back to her vanity, a deep red lipstick caught her eye on the table. Tina lifted up to the light and turned the tube, admiring its rich shade. This was her favorite color, and it complimented her maroon evening gown perfectly. In a motion she'd done a thousand times, Maria leaned into the mirror and painted her lips expertly. It was more eye catching than what she would normally wear – but she liked it. 

“Miss Finland, you’re up first. Please walk out to the center of the stage, pose, and proceed down the main runway.”

Maria watched the woman, no older than she was, smile nervously at the MC before vanishing behind the curtain.

\---

After a brief, fraught conversation with a hotel employee, Betelgeuse was in possession of directions to the correct door through which Press should enter for the pageant proper. Whether he was meant to be sleazing around backstage during the rehearsals was likely a big fat no, but propriety has never, ever stopped him. 

There's a frazzled looking gentleman at the door, holding a clipboard, a clipboard Betelgeuse is more than certain doesn't have his name on it - not that this represents a problem. The living tend to avoid conflict, and Betelgeuse is conflict wearing an only passingly--convincing person suit. It's the work of only a few minutes to convince the poor guy that not only is "Bernard Johnson" allowed into the room, but backstage as well, and that if he prevents any of this he will never work in this town again. Pleased, and a little high on human fear, Betelgeuse waltzes into the ballroom with the confidence of a man who owns the place, sliding through the jumble of bodies and haze of cigarette smoke that tends to follow reporters, and parking himself at the front. 

As he moseys down the aisle, an ice-blonde supermodel of a woman floats across the stage, beatific smile pasted on her pristine face. Screw the hotel lobby, this was pervert Valhalla. 

A tinned voice sounds from backstage _"Miss Finland, to your mark, that's it - thank you. Next_!" Skeevy visions of half-dressed beauty queens giggling backstage - asking him coyly to zip up their gowns or help them buckle a shoe - dance in his head. Being aboveground and pretending to be human represents an opportunity to experience certain carnal pleasures that are otherwise fairly old hat in the Neitherworld.

He has two billion completely functional nerve endings for two weeks - it would be a crime not to put them to good use. 

Putting his feet up on the chair in front of him, he leans back to enjoy the show. At last until Tina shows up, he can enjoy a spot of good, old-fashioned ogling, and once he has his coat - what? There'd been some semblance of a plan, something about tracking down the seediest dive and loosest chicks he could find and enjoying every vice the world of the living had to offer. Keeping an eye on the girl was secondary, a job he could do in his sleep - just because she smiled at him, wrapped herself in his coat like it could keep her safe, talked to him like a man and not a monster, that didn't mean anything. 

_It couldn't mean anything._

\---

Maria watched from her place at the vanity as girl after girl were called up to rehearse their walk. Their long, colorful gowns floating behind them as they hurried towards the curtain. One women, tall and sporting an knee-high dress, skirted by her, and Maria felt a small swell of jealously bubble up at the glimpse of the woman’s long legs. She quickly swallowed the feeling back down. Height had always been her downfall in beauty competitions – 5 foot 4 (though she claimed to be 5 foot 5) didn’t grant her the long legs and torso so often coveted in beauty queens. But, she always made up for her _short comings_ in other areas, she’d do it again here. 

_Miss Germany, Miss Africa, Miss Greece…_

”Miss Argentina, please come up to the front!” 

At the sound of her title Maria stood quickly and smoothed out her maroon gown. She gave herself a parting, pleased look in the vanity mirror, then turned and hurried over to the MC. The man held open the thick curtain for her and she stepped out into the stage lights, her ruby lipped pageant smile already perfectly in place. In a saunter she’d practiced a thousand times, Maria glided down the runway, the hem of her dress floating behind her. She kept her back straight, neck tall, and fixed her gaze at the back of the large room.

At the end of the runway she stopped – her pose delicate and confident. The stillness of her body only looking easy thanks to her years of dancing. On her turn back down the aisle she caught a pair of blue eyes. Sitting in the front, looking very much at home with his feet up, was Mr. Johnson. Good, he made it. Their shared look didn’t last more than a second before she finished turning her head, presenting her backless dress to the mostly empty ballroom while making her way to the curtain.

\---

Betelgeuse could get used to this. 

It takes all his willpower not to wolf whistle at the various girls as they glide around the stage. There's a sort of celluloid perfection to each of them, not a hair out of place or a step out of sync - they're camera ready in every respect, almost more doll than human, hitting marks with almost military precision. For a dyed-in-the-wool pervert like Betelgeuse, the parade of women is little more than an all-you-can-ogle buffet, a smorgasbord of the loveliest every country has to offer. Why would he even need to go out on the town?

”Miss Argentina, please come up to the front!” 

He perks up at the sound of her title, tipping his hat back on his head and plucking the cigarette out of his mouth as she steps on stage. Last he'd seen her, she'd been frazzled, face bare save for the flush of embarrassment on her high cheekbones, hair mussed, dressed in her nightgown and later - his coat. He knows she is a beauty queen, but hasn't really thought about what that means until just now, and his newly recovered breath catches in his throat. She looks... ** _delicious_**.  
  
Were he a better man, he might wax poetic about her beauty and grace, but he was barely a man at all, and wants instead to unhinge his jaw like a snake and swallow her whole. He wants to snarl his fingers in her dark hair and pull – **_hard_**. Wants to grab the delicate hem of that dress, the color of blood, and tug until it rips. Wants to **_smear_** her sultry, scarlet smile with his thumb and watch her eyes go dark and heavy-lidded with want

He shakes off the insane spike of want, blaming it on the meat suit.

(Hot-blooded takes on a whole new meaning when you _have_ blood).

He can't help himself, and whistles. The other reporters look at him with bland judgement, their stares sliding off him like embalming fluid off a corpse. As soon as she's off the stage, he stands, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, and strolls backstage, eyeing the mile-long legs on Miss Germany for far longer than is appropriate, and winking at Miss Greece, before setting off in search of Tina.

\---

Maria heard the whistle a she disappeared behind the curtain. She wasn’t sure who it was - it could have been Mr. Johnson - but it really didn’t matter. Pageant women weren’t supposed to react to those types of crass actions. Just smile and continue their walk. 

While she made her way over to the vanity, her shoe caught the hem of her dress. She cringed when she heard the deafening tear of it ripping. Cursing under her breath she lifted the dress up past her knee, eyeing the damage. It was bad. Fortunately they had appointments with the seamstresses later this week for final fittings – she was sure they’d be able to repair it then. The buzz of her successful walk now stripped away by the wardrobe mishap, Maria sat down at her desk in a huff, covering her face in her hands. Deep breaths. Keep the nerves in check. She looked up from her palms just in time to see Mr. Johnson strolling into the room – thumbs in his pants and eyes everywhere except in front of him. 

The reporter leered around the room in a sordid display. Maria watched with furrowed brows as the gentleman who’d shared his coat with her earlier shot long, lecherous gazes at her fellow beauty queens. His lips pulling back in a sleazy grin when the women caught him staring – even going as far as to wink back at their flustered reactions. 

She bristled.

Had she really characterized him so poorly? Had she been so nervous before that she’d missed this, or had he been on his best behavior when they met? Maria couldn’t say, but all this did was solidify her decision to keep their interactions professional moving forward. Her cool resolution left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, one she hadn’t been expecting. As silly, and frankly pathetic, as it was to admit – their brief introduction before had left her feeling…good. A word she hadn’t been able to associate with herself in months - if not longer. The notion of cutting off something that made her feel anything other than awful left the building weight in her chest seem heavier.

Pushing aside the bleakness, she smiled at him politely when he caught her eye. Maria pulled his coat from the back of her chair and draped it over her arm. 

“Thank you again, Mr. Johnson, for letting me borrow this.” She said, keeping her tone cool and collected under his blue gaze.

\---

Backstage at a beauty pageant - Betelgeuse could kiss Juno for this assignment. He won't, as he's fairly certain she'd flatten him for the insolence, but the point stands - this job, in theory, is great. A seemingly endless bevy of beautiful babes, and he with the all-access pass and a cover story that will get him into any dressing room he pleases.

He's already making dastardly plans - but first, his coat. It's not hard to find Tina, a slim column of scarlet, the elegant line of her neck and delicious curve of her exposed back

_“Thank you again, Mr. Johnson, for letting me borrow this,”_ she murmurs, face carefully neutral, and it rankles him, just slightly. She'd been friendly, nearly _flirtatious_ earlier - now he was Mr. Johnson, and a wall of cool disconnect had been erected between them. 

Betelgeuse lifts his hands in mock surrender, "Mr. Johnson? We not friends anymore, doll?" he snickers, shrugging into his coat - he smiles with easy confidence, planting his feet, body language non-threatening but also very clearly putting himself between her and the rest of the room, a solid wall of smarmy dead guy she'll have to go through if she wants to leave the conversation. 

His eyes catch on the torn hem of her gown and he tuts at her, "Normally it takes a little more than borrowin' my coat to get birds rippin' their clothes off," he crows with self-indulgent laughter, "I'm kiddin', I'm kiddin, but really, seems like bad form to trash your dress, Miss Tina. I only got the coat, I ain't got an evening gown to lend ya."

\---

_“We not friends anymore, doll?”_

His quip left a sting she wasn’t expecting, and she watched through lowered brows as he leisurely eased on his coat. His air of _self-assuredness_ was both enticing and a little frustrating, especially after the lecherous display she’d just witnessed. BJ took a very obvious step in front of her, his stance wide and his shoulders squared with hers. 

Maria shifted uncomfortably, for just a moment, before she straightened her spine and met his gaze. The shared look only lasted a moment before his eyes flicked down, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Following his tipped chin, Maria saw her ripped dress, and the start of an embarrassed blush began to creep into her cheeks while he tutted at her condescendingly. She had hoped to have this dress off to the tailor before anyone noticed her slipup – but she wasn’t having much luck today. The casual acknowledgement of her ** _imperfect_** attire and **_mistake_** had her nerves flaring up, and she clenched her hands together anxiously. 

"Normally it takes a little more than borrowin' my coat to get birds rippin' their clothes off,"

In a flash she snapped her head back up to look at him, her eyes wide and her cheeks now fully red, the shock ripping away whatever nervousness had started to bubble up. The accompanied rough laugh, one she rather liked, paired with his cheeky comment about not having a dress to lend her, softened his lewd joke. Mr. Johnson was crass, to be sure, but there was an odd type of charisma to him. In an effort to hide the smile that wanted to creep onto her lips, Maria placed a hand over her mouth and quickly cleared her throat. 

“If you had happened to have an evening gown in my size, Mr. Johnson that would be very impressive – if not also raise a few questions.” Maria arched a brow and smiled politely. “I can get this one tailored later on in the week, it shouldn’t be a problem...I should have been more careful, though. It won’t happen again.”

In the same way he’d taken a step towards her to start the conversation, she took one back as an indication to end it.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you – hopefully we’ll have a chance to speak again during the competition.”  


\---

It'd be a lie to say that Betelgeuse didn't enjoy watching her blush - watching the pink flush creep over her high cheekbones and down her elegant neck, a visible reminder of how warm she'd be under his fingers, how vital and alive. A gentleman might have made every effort not to embarrass her, but Betelgeuse was no gentleman - the mild shock in her eyes, hand over her mouth, watching her carefully crafted facade wobble just slightly?

Delicious.

As a student of the human condition (both living and dead), he could tell she wasn't completely irritated with him - not that that sort of thing has ever stopped him before. Though she hides it with her hand, he can see the spark of a smile in her dark eyes, and the barest hint of a laugh in her voice, though the overwhelming impression was of cool politeness. He's seen this sort of thing before, recognizes it from years of practice in perversion. _ **She didn't want to like him.**_

Betelgeuse had certainly gotten further with less.

"Not really my style, if you know what I mean, though I gotta say, I think showing a lotta leg is the way to go. Not sure rippin' your gown is the best way to go about it, but the judges might like your moxie," snickering to himself, he steps to one side to allow her to pass. Her eye slide sideways off of him, resolute in her decision to not enjoy his presence and it ** _stirs_** something in Betelgeuse. Not a need to be liked - he's never wanted to be liked, he takes far too much joy in being a nuisance for that.

No, it's that she might _already like him_ , and is tamping that ill-advised emotion down. If her body language is any indication, she wants to end the conversation, be away from him, and yet she's half-making plans to interact with him again. That's interesting. That's worth pursuing.

_”Hopefully we’ll have a chance to speak again during the competition.”_

Juno is gonna absolutely **_kill him_**. "About that," he drawls, taking a step closer and leaning on her vanity, shifting his bulk so as to not be in her way, but certainly the center of her attention. He was a large man in life, and a few inches larger in death (being six feet tall just _felt_ right), and tended to make himself a spectacle - Tina had the poor fortune of being the direct target of his focus. “Listen, I gotta profile one of these broads for the paper, call it a human interest story. Now I figure you owe me,” he winks, “for the use of my coat, so what say you let me take you out tomorrow and ask you some boring’ question, eh?”

\---

The vanity groaned, just slightly, when he pressed his weight against it – his body angled in such a way to let her pass by him. Maria shot him a sideways glance as she took a step forward, his easy, **_frustratingly charming_** smile melting away her resolve to be upset with him. As she turned away from him, BJ started to speak again, his raspy drawl pulling her attention back.

_“About that,”_

A human interest story? **Her story**. The gears in Maria’s mind started to turn, all her sacrifice as a child, the long nights practicing dance, her passion for perfection, written out to go alongside her **_eventual_** Miss Universe champion title. A smile bloomed on her face, the excitement radiating off her when she tried to, as casually as possible, turn around to see him. It wasn’t good to show too much interest, so when their eyes met she blinked a few times – just barely muffling the enthusiasm. 

“I suppose I do owe you.” She said smoothly and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Tomorrow was going to be busy though – more walk practice, fittings needed to be scheduled, and there were some group publicity photos planned.

With the precision bred from a lifetime of scheduling, Maria informed BJ of where they’d be doing the interview tomorrow. “We can meet for coffee. 8:00 am at the café across the street from the hotel – I’ll need to back to my room by 9:00 am – so I hope you will be there on time.” 

Maria tore a piece of paper from one of the many competition flyers left around back stage. Her gaze bounced around her vanity, huffing at the lack of a pen, before spotting the top of one peeking out of BJ’s coat pocket. Brightening immediately she plucked it from his jacket and scribbled down the name of the café. 

“Just in case.” She cooed, placing the paper and the pen back in his pocket dutifully before starting to take a few steps away. “I’ll be seeing you bright and early tomorrow, Mr. Johnson.” Maria was thrilled about the interview, to be sure – and even though his rough, crooked grin had warmed her chill towards him - an arm’s reach still needed to be kept.

\---

It was fascinating, really, to watch the delicate ballet of emotions flit across her expressive face - Betelgeuse can very nearly see Tina weighing her options: the propriety of having a meal with a man she barely knows, versus the potential boost an article about her in the paper would be to her career. 

(She'll be in the paper, alright, but not in the way she hopes. He hopes the picture they choose for her obituary is nice.)

How nice it is, to have a woman **_smile_** at him, bat her eyelashes - the girls at the Inferno Room all have his number and know his tricks, and Juno is, well, Juno. If she batted her eyelashes at him, hell might very well freeze over. Flirting with a pretty young woman, the echo of blood throbbing in his veins, the thrill of the chase as **_hot_** and **_addictive_** as nicotine on his tongue - this is why he does this job. Opening his mouth to herd her towards the schedule of his choice (a seedy afternoon drink at a seedy diner, entirely his style), he quickly closes it when she proceeds to barrel forwards with her own plans. 

"Eight in the mornin'? You're a nutcase, sweets," he leers down at her, a little surprised her prissiness hasn't completely raised his hackles. Maybe it's the way she takes without asking, plucking a grubby fountain pen from the pocket of his shirt and writing out an address, maybe it's the way she simply assumes he'll follow at her heels that makes him _kind of want to_."Yer lucky I got a job to do, these old bones don't get outta bed before noon for nuthin'."

Patting his breast pocket, he tips his hat at her and fixes her with a mossy smile before turning on his heel and sauntering from the rehearsal space - this time eyes fixed squarely ahead, whistling tunelessly around his cigarette. "Bright and early," he repeats over his shoulder, "Miss Tina."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a girl and a ghost get coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death before decaf, am I right?
> 
> This chunk ended up being long, so it's getting posted in two parts.

At 7:50am Maria arrived at the coffee shop. Always better to be a little early – people who cheekily claimed to always be _fashionably late_ were just trying to excuse their own laziness. Laziness, and an obvious disregard for other people’s time. It was just _rude_.

She found a small table near the back by a large window, separated from most of the foot traffic, and settled down. While she waited for Mr. Johnson, Maria peered outside, smiling fondly at the families with small children. One family of four caught her eye, all pink cheeked with obvious sunscreen on the little ones’ noses. Judging by the wide grins on their faces they were off to The Pike – nothing got kids excited to be up this early other than the promise of rollercoasters, ferris wheels, and the beach. They were tugging eagerly at their parent’s hands, urging them to move faster. Her chest swelled and she turned her head to watch them until they were out of sight. That would be _her_ someday.

At 8:05am Maria pulled her attention away from the window and kept it on the front door. Something important must be holding him up. Call from his boss, maybe? Her manicured nails tapped rhythmically on the wood table. The line for coffee was starting to pick up now and she considered going to order for the both of them. Would he be offended?

At 8:15am Maria was stirring her second sugar packet into her drink. She glanced up at the empty chair across from her, and then to the black coffee she’d bought sitting in front of it. To the few people passing by the table she looked like a young women who’d been stood up on a date. Her hair was done neatly in a low curled bun, eyes and lips painted lightly, and she’d worn her favorite green sun dress. She was a beauty queen, after all, and if she was going to be interviewed about it ( _if_ being more likely as the minutes ticked by) she had to look her best.

And it was just an added boost of confidence if Mr. Johnson, or anyone else for that matter, appreciated the extra effort she put into her appearance. Who didn’t like feeling beautiful?

\---

Betelgeuse didn't really _do_ morning.

Well, he didn't really _do_ sleep either - the dead didn't need it, and lying down and closing one's eyes for eight hours felt suspiciously like mimicking the Real Deal. However, wearing the meat suit, as fake as it was, brought with it a familiar tug of bodily need. He didn't _require_ oxygen, but expanding and contracting the lungs just felt right, and helped sell the illusion. He didn't _require_ a solid eight hours of unconsciousness, but the lumpy motel mattress and the soothing sound of roaches scurrying in the walls lulled him towards something vaguely resembling dreamland.

Oozing out the door at five past eight, _fashionably late_ , and kicking the cobwebs of inertia from his old bones, the poltergeist shuffled past various shuttered storefronts, humming tunelessly, long-fingered hands jammed deep into the threadbare pockets of his coat.

He was not a real reporter, and had no plan for what he was going to talk to _Miss Argentina_ about, and that might have worried a lesser demon, but if there was one thing Betelgeuse knew himself to be a connoisseur of, it was _bullshit_. Like a used car salesman from hell, he could bloviate with the best of them, all unearned confidence and carnival-barker patter. So it was with the confidence of a man a half hour early that he slid into the booth a quarter of an hour _late_ , already down the filter on a dirty cigarette.

"Ah, would ya look at that, she ordered for me, what a gal, if she picks up the tab I think I'll have to keep 'er," he speaks as though to an invisible second person, wrapping one un-manicured palm around the cup and removing his smoke only long enough to take a sip. The coffee was neither as strong as he liked, nor gritty with grounds, as was his preference, but that was an easy fix when the fabric of reality bent to your will. Flicking his eyes up to her, he could tell she'd put effort into looking nice, had worn makeup and done her hair, donned a pretty green dress.

(And wouldn't it look so much better on his floor?)

"Ya doin' okay, doll? Looked a little rattled yesterday after your, uh, wardrobe mishap, though that is _strictly_ off the record, if you know what I mean."

\---

As the minutes ticked by, she started to get anxious. Having her schedule thrown out of whack was not something Maria was used to, or comfortable with. Maybe she was high-strung, but it kept her life feeling under control (even if it wasn’t).

She’d been so lost in thought, eyes glued to her half empty coffee mug, that she didn’t hear the front door ding. Nor did she hear the heavy footsteps of his approach. It was only when he plopped himself down in the seat across from her that she jerked her head up. Maria felt a mix of frustration and relief when he shot her an easy smile, not a single apology on his lips. She straightened her back and bristled – ready to, as kindly as she could manage, tell him she didn’t appreciate the lateness - when he started to talk.

_"Ah, would ya look at that, she ordered for me, what a gal, if she picks up the tab I think I'll have to keep 'er."_

There was that odd, crass charm again. She felt her shoulders loosen. The men in her life had always been polished head to toe, their words and conversations carefully crafted to play the part expected of them. They wore a mask. A mask not unlike the one she chose to wear – the perfect beauty queen. In contrast Mr. Johnson, _BJ_ , seemed entirely at ease with himself. She might not appreciate his lateness, or the way he unapologetically eyed her fellow contestants, but she found the authenticity refreshing.

Maria leaned back in her chair, watching him with a cool smile as he took a long sip of his coffee before replacing the stub of a cigarette back in his mouth. God, could she use one of those right now.

“You’re welcome.” She said patiently, resolving to ignore what time it was. When he brought up the previous days dress malfunction, she cringed. Mistakes were not something she liked to dwell on, or have brought up.

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.” She took a sip of her coffee and cleared her throat. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. I appreciate you just keeping it between us, though,” she lowered her voice and leaned in slightly, “our little secret.”

Her cheeky comment came off more _familiar_ than she intended, and quickly tried to change the subject through a nervous laugh.

“Anyway – I’m excited about the interview. I’ve done a few in the past, for smaller papers in Argentina, but nothing in US. Nothing that’s just about _me_.” Maria couldn’t help herself and beamed at him, her slender hands gripping her coffee mug in eagerness. “Ready to start whenever you are."

\---

It rarely occurred to Betelgeuse to be contrite - guilt, like responsibility, mornings, religion, and taxes, were for the living, and therefore so far outside his sphere of personal expertise that it might as well be on Saturn, with the sandworms. Maria, _Tina_ , in her pretty green dress and sipping a mug of something more cream-and-sugar than it was coffee, relaxed under his easy charm and so all was forgiven, though he'd hardly noticed her stiffen in the first place.

If folks weren't a _little_ bit annoyed in his presence, he probably was doing something wrong.

What he did _not_ miss was the way her huge brown eyes followed the glowing tip of his cigarette, the clench in her jaw when he brought up her dress, her immaculate coif and lipstick, and the just _so_ fold of her hands in her lap. This girl needed to be perfect like she needed oxygen (one thing he did remember about the living, they definitely needed oxygen - you didn't mess that one up twice). Everything about her was proper, not a hair out of place, every angle camera ready, every inch the ideal beauty queen, practically vibrating with her desire to appear flawless.

And when the mask slipped, just slightly, when she inclined her head towards him and spoke in a sultrier tone of voice, _“our little secret,"_ \- oh, Betelgeuse _liked_ that, cracked a crooked grin at her even when she pulled back and giggled uncomfortably, flushing with embarrassment. He had the sense that were this another life, if the title of Miss Universe didn't hang over her head like a bedazzled sword of Damocles, that she'd be fun and fierce and _feisty_.

He wondered if that short leash she kept herself on could be cut.

Had he prepared questions? Not a chance. If there was one thing he was good at, it was _improvising_ , though her dazzling smile threw him for a loop for the briefest second - usually only the ladies of Dante's cracked smiles for him, and they were getting _paid_. Usually.

"So, doll, you been doin' pageants for how long? How'd ya get into it, if you don't mind my sayin' so you seem eh, barely legal, if you know what I mean, you're, what, twenty? Twenty-one? Prime of your life, how'd you end up doin' this for fun?" He downs another sip of gritty coffee, "It is _fun_ , yeah? It's gotta be, why'd else would ya put yourself through this craziness, eh?"

\---

Maria caught his pleased grin at the playful remark and her gaze lingered on it longer than appropriate. For such a scruffy, rough face his smile was surprisingly soft. She liked the way the corners of his mouth curled up when it was at its widest, blooming fine lines on his cheeks and near his eyes. She had to assume that smile got him out of a lot of things (and probably a lot of _women_ out of things, too.) Maria flushed at the thought, but just a little. Fortunately her immaculate foundation hid most of the evidence.

Thankfully he started to ask his questions and she refocused, straightening up to listen attentively. She’d been asked this plenty of times, though not as colorfully as Mr. Johnson had asked it, but she guessed that’s how most of this interview would go.

“Oh, I’ve been doing pageants since I was little.” She started, leaning back in her chair and taking a quick sip of her coffee. “I was 6 when I won my first child pageant – been on a near perfect streak since. It’s not just about looking pretty, you know. Many pageants have a talent component, mine being ballet. I’m actually disappointed the Miss Universe competition won’t be asking us to demonstrate our skills, I’m _very_ good.”

Disappointed was an understatement. She was _angry_. Maria was _excellent_ at ballet – it’s what tipped her over the winning edge in so many competitions. Part of her had been insulted when she found out Miss Universe had only wanted to see them in a few outfits and answer a couple of meaningless, thoughtless questions. Questions with the same expected answers of world peace and feeding the hungry. All important things, to be sure, but nothing that did anything to set her apart.

“And I am very legal, Mr. Johnson. Are you?” Another coy smile while she lifted the coffee mug to her mouth. “I’m twenty-two, twenty-three in just a few months. It’s not polite to ask about a women’s age, you know.”

_"It is fun, yeah? It’s gotta be, why else would ya put yourself through this craziness, eh?”_

Her upturned lips abruptly flattened.

She stared down into her coffee – struck. This was an easy answer. Another she’d recited hundreds of times - _of course it’s fun_. Not that it needed to be fun. She just _needed_ to do it.

“I, well-.” Maria stopped and blinked a few times, laughed, and started up again. “I’ve been doing this since I was a child. My mother did it when she was young. It’s…just something I’ve always done.” She hadn’t answered his question and tried again.

“It’s fun, sometimes, sure – but that’s not why I do it. It’s rewarding. All my hard work, all my hours practicing ballet, practicing my walk, staying in shape…” She trailed off, the same drive from the previous morning burning back into her face. “I’m good at this. It’s not easy, it’s not a hobby, this is _my life_ \- and I will continue to work long and hard to reach my goals. To win. Because what’s the point of anything if you don’t have goals?”

She lifted her hard gaze from the coffee to fix it at BJ. He had to understand this wasn’t just a silly pastime, right?

“I’m sure you know what it’s like to have goals, BJ? To be so passionate about something that it’s your whole world? That you’d do anything to accomplish it?"

\---

_“Oh, I’ve been doing pageants since I was little.”_ It struck him, then, that Tina hadn’t had anything even remotely resembling a chance. Kiddie pageant sounded like a special hell - but getting in that young, and _winning_ had almost certainly sealed her fate as a beauty queen for life.

(Being a good-fer-nuthin’ nobody for most of his life and the majority of his afterlife had proved to Betelgeuse that being good for _something_ was a hell of a drug.)

He wondered what she might have loved, if her mother hadn’t stuffed her into a tutu and toddled her out on that stage. What life she might have lived.

Almost certainly a _longer_ life.

“Ballet dancer, huh?” His better instincts fought tooth and nail against his nature - the urge to ask for a private show was very nearly overwhelming, and he pasted a look of benign interest on his face to avoid leering. That being said, it wasn’t as hard as it usually was to swallow the lewd comment that hovered on the tip of his tongue - because she was _smiling_ at him again. A demure quirk of the corner of her painted mouth as she sassed him, smirking coquettishly into her coffee cup.

Betelgeuse brayed out a laugh, “All legal and aboveboard, toots,” he takes a drag on his cigarette, talking through the exhale of fragrant smoke, “Awful sorry if I ever gave you impression I was _polite_ , though, hey, pretty girl says she’ll come to coffee with me, answer my questions, I probably oughta mind my manners, but I don’t have any manners to mind, _if you know what I mean_.”

( _Jay-zus_ , She was only twenty-two, not quite twenty-three, never _would_ be twenty-three. The thought soured something in the pit of his stomach - she was talking about a future she’d never have.)

Betelgeuse didn’t miss the way her face fell, suddenly distant - he’d struck a nerve, then. He was good at that. He had approached nothing in his life, nor in his death, with her brand of ruthlessly efficient drive; the white-hot knowledge that she _was_ a winner, she _was_ the best, and that it could not shake out any other way.

She looked at him with a sort of grim determination, but there was something brittle there too - an edge of pleading in her voice and in her gaze, trying to sell the illusion she herself had been sold.

Betelgeuse was beginning to understand why she was going to die.

“Goals? Me? Nah, what I’d like to call a free spirit and what my ol’ boss-lady likes to call a lazy bum,” making an effort to lighten the mood, he leaned back in his booth, gesturing extravagantly with his cigarette, “Goin’ wherever the wind takes me, doin’ exactly what _I_ wanna do. Passion’ is for-” he was about to say living, “passion is for the young, kiddo. Hold onto it while you can, yeah?”

He wrapped long-fingered hands around his cup of coffee, the heat seeping into cold palms and warming his centuries old bones. Or maybe it was the girl in front of him, who smiled like she had a secret, that warmed him, just a little.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a girl and a ghost go for a walk in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romantic cliches? Never heard of her.

BJ was _funny._

Maria listened to his responses intently, eyes following his exaggerated gestures while he spoke. Impolite with a lack of manners? No need for him to explain further there. And though she’d normally mind quite a bit she found herself not caring in the slightest. She did, however, feel her skin tingle when called a _“pretty girl”._ It’s not that she didn’t know she was pretty, she was a beauty queen after all, but hearing it grated out between whips of smoke made it feel different.

When BJ told her that he didn’t have any goals or passions – she thought he was joking. When it was clear he wasn’t she was at a loss. How could a person have no ambition? No drive? Maria could appreciate the concept of a free spirit, but she couldn’t understand how it worked. The fact that he could sit there so relaxed, so comfortable with himself, and just exist was baffling.

“Was it the wind that brought you to Miss Universe, then? My mother would agree with your boss-lady.” Another playful jab punctuated with a pursed smile.

She much preferred Pretty Girl over kiddo and bristled noticeably at the comment.

“I may be young, but I’m a grown woman, Mr. Johnson – and you don’t appear to be over the hill quite yet.” Maria straightened her back as she spoke, the humor in her face cooling a bit. The beauty queen moved her gaze to the window she’d been staring out of before – her eyes catching a gaggle of children as they raced by. It would almost be a relief when she won. The pressure of perfection would be lifted, just slightly, and she’d be able to start building out the next phase of her life. Accomplishing new goals.

Maria started to speak unprompted. “Once the pageant is over, and the yearlong partnership with Miss Universe has finished, I want to open a ballet studio in Argentina…”

She stopped suddenly, turning away from the window to flash an apologetic and guilty smile at BJ. “After marriage and kids, of course!” Maria chuckled warmly as she sipped down the last of her coffee. “I couldn’t imagine not having children. I’ve wanted them forever – at least two, three preferably.”

Convincing Antonio of more than one had been a challenge in and of itself. She suspected, anxiously sometimes, that he didn’t actually want children – that like with most things in life, he knew it was expected of him. There was plenty Maria sacrificed in her life to meet the expectations of others, but the urge to raise a family was a want all of her own. Warm brown eyes moved from her coffee cup to the man sitting across from her, his easy expression ever in place.

“And you, Mr. Johnson? Do you have any children?”

\---

Of course, he wouldn't tell her the truth - that he was here because she was a ticking time bomb, less than two weeks away from biting the big one, and he was obligated by paranormal forces far beyond his control to make sure it went off without a hitch. He actually **_physically_** couldn't tell her, would find the words stalled in his throat by whatever _bureaucratic voodoo_ Juno had at her bony fingertips. Usually, this was no problem for Betelgeuse - breathers were all more or less the same, and the ones on the edge of kicking the proverbial bucket tended to be unilaterally dull as doornails. If he wanted to spend time with sad-sacks, he'd hang around the waiting room at the office, harassing poor schmucks as they went through the various stages of grief.

"Needin' a paycheck brought me here, doll, wind don't keep a roof over my head and smokes in my pocket, if you get my drift. Work's not bed, 'specially when it involves interviewin' lovely young ladies - pardon me, grown women." he raises un-manicured hands in the universal symbol of supplication, smirking indulgently at her ire.

He wasn't so much over the hill as he was six feet under it.

The thing about people standing on the precipice of suicide is this - they don't tend to think much about the future. In fact, for most, the future is a bleak and featureless wasteland too ugly to stomach, and then, well, you know the rest. Betelgeuse, in his six hundred years dragging bewildered new corpses through the awkward few moments of death, had rarely encountered someone so **_disconcertingly alive_**.

Tina spoke about her future with a sort of sweet dreaminess he might have nearly found charming under other circumstances. If he didn't know that she'd never win the pageant, never open a ballet studio, never get married, never have children. The life she'd so clearly laid out for herself, the future she'd thoughtfully planned - it would never happen. She'd be worm food, a titillating tragedy for the tabloids to chew on like a dog with a bone.

He is jolted from this train of thought by her question and barks with incredulous laughter. "Me? Kids? Nah - thought about the family man thing, once, long time ago, wasn't for me. Didn't work out, if you catch my drift," he doesn't elaborate, instead steering the conversation away from a future that would never come.

"Ya seem awful focused on the future, what about the here and the now, sweetheart? What do ya like to do for fun, when you're not, ya know - doin' the Miss Universe thing."

\---

The obvious bewilderment on his face before he could even answer told Maria everything she needed to know. Mr. Johnson did not have children. And from the sounds of it, he wasn’t married, either – or at least not anymore. She felt a pang of sympathy in her chest for him. The reporter was trying to play it off, wave the role of a “family man” away like it had been a passing fad, it just hadn’t worked out, but it was clear there was more to it. Maria had a fleeting urge to reach out and touch the hand he had placed on the table, but she quickly pushed the intrusive thought away.

_What do ya like to do for fun, when you're not, ya know. Doin' the Miss Universe thing._

Fun. Right. She had her appropriate and approved answers for this question. Piano, gardening – flowers, of course, and she enjoyed spending time with her mother cooking. These were all true things, sure, but they weren’t things Maria found the most fun. Like when she got to play billiards with her father in his study, or her penchant for crud comedy shows, or when she’d get to sneak out and visit shady bars where they’d be playing live music. Oh, she loved live music – especially swing. The practiced and perfected ballet was always forgotten in favor of senseless, buzzed dancing with friends when she got to go out.

But, those things weren’t pageant friendly hobbies. Not lady like.

“Well…” The beauty queen started with obvious hesitation in her voice. She needed to keep the mask on. “I like Piano, my father taught me. C-cooking, specifically baking, is something I …”

The sound of a light tap drew her attention to the window, her eyes following a thin drop of water as it zig-zagged down the glass. This drop was followed by another. And another. Till a light drizzle had started to patter down on the sidewalk outside.   
  
“Is it _raining_?” She said incredulously. She’d heard it never rained in California, especially not this time of year. God, she didn’t have an umbrella, hadn’t even packed a rain coat. Maria peered up at the clock on the wall – 8:50. She needed to be getting back anyway, and this weather was going to make things so much more difficult.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson. I need to get back to the hotel – I’m pretty packed for the day. And with this rain, I think I may need to call a cab…if you had more questions, though, we could pick this up again another day? I think I could probably schedule you in.” There she was, teasing him again. It rolled off her tongue so easily. Despite her worry about the rain, and despite her exhaustion with having to wear the mask so tightly, she smiled at him.

\---

It’s a blessing that she doesn’t question him - likely because it’s neither polite nor particularly interesting to dig into why a gentleman of his age (how old is his meat sack supposed to be, anyway? He’ll have to figure that out) doesn’t have a blushing bride and a couple of rugrats. It’s easy enough to lie (if lying were an olympic event he’d have several gold medals) and say he never found the time, he was focused on his work, he never found there right girl -

Well, he thought he had found the right girl.

Six hundred years of practice has made him a much better judge of character. It’s a mistake he won’t make again, and a dull jolt of memory throbs at his throat in warning. Now ain’t the time to dwell on ancient fuckin’ history.

Speaking of lying, it was painfully obvious she was doing it right now - not maliciously, probably not even intentionally, but the stilted list of proper pastimes she was ticking off were so clearly a fabrication, and a dull one at that. Betelgeuse knew dull - he was dead, after all. The mask she wore was a good one, but it was still a mask - he could see it, clear as day, and when it slipped, the girl underneath?

He **_liked_** her. Wanted to get to know who she was when she wasn’t a beauty queen.

Maybe an interview was the wrong tactic - she’d only ever be charming and perfect Miss Argentina if it was going to be in the paper (it was never going to be in the paper, but she didn’t know that). The gears in his greasy, car-salesman brain began to turn.

Call it an act of God (Betelgeuse doesn’t mind the comparison) - the patter of rain interrupted the conversation, and Tina’s look of mild horror gave him the barest rush of sadistic glee. Pretty girl, nasty weather - he was a man of simple pleasures. As much as the idea of her soaked to the skin, hair ruined, makeup running (nipples tight under her dress - down, boy) tempted him, she’s quick to suggest a cab - and snark at him to boot, which makes him smile toothily at her.

“Sure, sure, doll, though I gotta say, I think I’d like to see you more, what’s the word I’m lookin’ for, more in your element, ya know what I mean? Yer gonna answer a hundred boring questions for a hundred crappy rags these next two weeks,” he stands, already reaching for another cigarette, and remembers only a little belatedly that it’s gentlemanly to pull out a lady’s chair for her. Also might get a look down the front of her dress (angle isn’t right, dammit), “but I wanna know what makes a beauty queen tick, ya know?”

Scrounging deep in the pocket of his coat, he conjures a handful of dirty change which he drops noisily on the table, and gesture towards the door. “What’s the Boy Scout Motto - be prepared? Never was a Boy Scout, but,” he hides the empty umbrella stand with the bulk of his body and magics into existence an umbrella, striped garishly in black and white, “-y’now, sometimes a motto really resonates with a guy.” Producing the umbrella with a flourish, he tries to hide the yellow predatory glint in his gaze, opening the door with one large hand. “After you, doll.”

\---

Before Maria had a chance to push her chair back it was pulled out for her, and she looked up, frankly surprised, at the scruffy older man. BJ had been clear with her before that he wasn’t one for politeness – so the unexpected gesture felt extra. She appreciated the effort.

“Thank you.” She said while accompanying him to the front door. “Did you have a specific element in mind for seeing how I tick, Mr. Johnson?” Her voice was laced with amusement and just a hint of excitement. The concept of doing anything outside of the usual was something to look forward to, even for a little while.

He didn’t answer her, but instead started to ramble on about the boy scouts, and how he wasn’t one – as if that wasn’t obvious. In a second surprise BJ produced an umbrella from the rack behind his back. It was big, hopefully big enough for two adults, and was printed with **_very loud_** black and white stripes. It didn’t match anything he was wearing, and she was shocked something so distinct hadn’t stood out to her before.

“You just carry that large, stripped umbrella around with you all the time?” Teasing again. It was easy with him. BJ always having that umbrella at the ready didn’t seem practical. Regardless, she was happy for the coverage. Getting a cab at this hour, in this rain, would have been difficult.

_After you, Doll._

She would never admit it aloud, but Maria liked when he called her doll - and the litany of other pet names he had a tendency to use. The name now paired with an unusual glint in his eye caused her to flush, and she quickly nodded at Mr. Johnson and stepped through the door. She waited under the awning out front, getting a few precious seconds to regain her composure, before he came out behind her and opened the umbrella. Maria took in a steadying breath and moved closer to the reporter, closer than she would have preferred. The only way, it seemed, for the two of them to be fully underneath it was to have their arms pressed together.

“So, where would you like to meet next time?” She asked and started to move forward. Hopefully the walk would be quick and the conversation could help distract her from his large body pressed against hers.

\---

With his hat on and trench coat firmly done up, he very nearly looked presentably - at least from far away. Up close, he knew he was rough around the edges, even in his human disguise. Tina didn't seem to shy away from that, though, from his ragged smile and ever-present five o'clock shadow, his slightly too-long fingernails and his frank, predatory gaze. She seemed almost excited as the prospect of spending more time with him, an opportunity on which he couldn't help but pounce.

"No offense, sweetheart, but yer awful straight-laced. Buttoned-up, if ya know what I mean. I'm more interested in what yer like, ah, unlaced, if you get my drift." Realizing how absolutely filthy that sounded, he backpedaled, "this beauty queen stuff is yer job, I wanna know what Miss Argentina is like when she's havin' fun."

Nailed it.

The dig at his choice of rain gear had him cough in mock affront. "What, ya don't like it?" He gestured incredulously at the obnoxious stripes, clearly feigning being deeply wounded, "I always thought stripes were real classy, they never go out of style, ya know?" He's cleverly (in his mind, at least) ducked the question - normal people didn't carry umbrellas on sunny days, but normal people didn't have paranormal powers they were using to get close to pretty girls. He'd already established himself as something of an eccentric - her own imagination would likely supply the rest.

Stepping out onto the street, he tipped the umbrella so that it would mostly cover the pair of them.

"Stick close, will ya, don't want that pretty 'do of yours gettin' wet, turn up to yer next appointment lookin' like a drowned rat," under the guise of keeping her close, Betelgeuse closed a hand (warm, he reminded himself, humans were warm) around her upper arm and drew her in just the littlest bit towards himself, snugging her up close under the umbrella.

"Personally, I'm very fond of drowned rats, but, ya gotta understand, I'm a man of taste." He took a breath - gotta keep up the illusion, you see - and took the opportunity to breathe her in, her delicate rose and jasmine perfume, and beneath that, the delicious musk of humanity, the hot vitality of flesh and blood. The knowledge that if he cruelly dug his fingers into the tender muscle of her arm, it would purple with a bruise, sent delight lancing through the poltergeist.

He wanted to see his marks on her.

The walk was short, the hotel looming in the distance, and he cast around for the right place to take her - the fog of his memory spat out only images of his bedroom at the roach motel he was staying at, and the _various places he'd like to take her._

Getting a little head of himself, there.

Something Juno had said to him, as she'd more or less kicked him out the door of her office, came back to him. Beej, there's bars as far as the eye can see, and if you get bored of drinking, there's a ferris wheel at the pier you can puke off of, you'll love it. Now get the hell out. Perfect. "How'sabout the, uh, the Pier? Fun, games, a Ferris Wheel, the perfect place to, ah, let yer hair down, if ya know what I mean."

\---

Unlaced.

Maria felt her scalp bristle as he spoke. She whipped her head towards him, ready to protest, just as he clarified his statement. Fun. He wanted to know what she did for fun. Regardless, the unintentional innuendo set her on edge. Before she had a chance to comment he veered off on another subject, gesturing with exaggeration to his umbrella. As someone who considered herself familiar with the latest fashions, stripes were not, in fact, always in style. But he knew that – she caught the humor in his tone and smiled politely at him. He seemed to like making a production of himself, so a garish umbrella somehow suited him.

As they stepped onto the street Maria kept her eyes to the ground. Walking in heels was natural for her – but in the rain was a different story. They didn’t exactly have the best grip. Mr. Johnson’s hand, however, got a **_firm_** grip on her arm. The feeling of his warm, rough fingers wrapping around her chilled skin set off a new wave of goosebumps. She caught the smell of him again, cigarettes and incense, stronger this time now that she was pressed against him rather than just wearing his coat. Her heels forgotten Maria stared up at him with a mix of exhilaration and panic. This was too close. Too intimate. Anyone walking by would easily mistake them for a couple. Her mind immediately raced to Antonio, and a thick sensation of guilt settled in her stomach.

The subject of drowned rats barely registered as the situation sunk in. BJ wasn’t being appropriate – this familiarity, the suggestive comments, the touching. She needed to set boundaries. The fact that he felt he could do this, the fact that part of her **_liked_** _him doing this_ , was a recipe for disaster. At the mention of a Ferris Wheel Maria pulled away from him. It sounded more like he was suggesting a date rather than a meeting – and it was the final push she needed. Gently, she maneuvered out of his grip and took a deliberate step back, her voice uncertain.

“Listen, Mr. Johnson, I don-.” Her next word morphed into a gasp when her second step back didn’t connect with the road.

\---

It would come as a surprise to absolutely no one that Betelgeuse was no stranger to making women uncomfortable - in fact, no stranger to making just about anyone uncomfortable, though young ladies were something of a specialty. Feeling her stiffen in his grip, he met her affronted gaze with a lazy, guileless grin, as if to say: who, me? Imply something inappropriate? Certainly not - she likely wouldn’t buy it, no one with half a brain cell would, but he needed to hold onto the scraps of his faux reputation as long as he could manage.

When she looked up at him, smile tight, eyes shining with anxiety, all nervous prey animal and shuddering pulse, he could have purred with predatory delight. Tina so clearly fought tooth and nail to appear perfect, poised, unflappable and immaculate - any rift in the facade, showing the humanity beneath, warm and vital, fluttering heartbeat and hitching breath, pleased him viscerally.

Unable to stop himself from continuing to push, to try and take what she was not offering, Betelgeuse was hardly taken aback when she shook herself free from the spell of the moment. Loosening his grasp, he looked her up and down bemusedly, frankly shocked she hadn’t slapped him yet.

He’d like that.

Rather, she continued to put distance between the pair of them, stepping backwards - directly off the sidewalk and into the street.

Lacking the time to do the calculus on exactly _how much paperwork_ Juno would jam down this throat if she was hit by a passing automobile and died two weeks ahead of schedule, Betelgeuse stepped forward and looped a strong arm around her waist, creating a counterbalance to pull her forward, and up against his broad chest.

“Careful, sweets,” his coffee grinder voice was painfully smug, “you were sayin’?”

\---

Best case, she’ll fall on her ass and get her dress wet. Worse case, she’ll crack her head on the pavement. Maria was thankful she didn’t need to find out how lucky she was that morning.

Maria gasped when Mr. Johnson’s large hand wrapped around her waist and hoisted her up. When he leaned back to get his balance she found herself pressed tight against his warm chest, his arm snug around her middle. In an effort to hold onto anything that would keep her vertical she dug her fingers into his shirt. Eyes dilated, hair mussed, Maria peered up at the older man in shock. He was fast - and disarmingly strong for someone with such an obvious gut. They were so much closer than they were before, and she found herself holding her breath with his face just inches from her own.

_Careful sweets._

The ground out cheeky abolishment had her heart thud against her chest (and his) and she didn’t immediately register that he’d followed up with a question. “Thank you.” She whispered before sucking in a bigger breath and trying again. “Thank you, that fall would have ruined my day.”

A subconscious smile bloomed on her face at the understatement, and her eyes lingered on his longer than appropriate. It was the shock, she was sure. When her nerves finally started to calm she cleared her throat and averted her gaze. Slowly, and not as forcefully as she’d done just a few moments before, Maria took a half step back from him – then remembered he’d asked her something.

“I’m not sure The Pike is the best place for the next interview.” Her voice shook slightly and she took in a steadying breath. Maria had been so sure she wanted to put a wall up with him. Maybe even not see him again all together – but now she hesitated. It would be rude to cut him off after catching her – at least that’s how she rationalized it.

“There’s a dinner tonight,” Maria took a step around him and closer to the door of the hotel, “It’s for contestants and their guests – no press. But I’ll put you down as a guest. Hopefully a dinner party will suffice as fun.” And there would be people there. People she _knew_ \- and Antonio would be there. It would not look like a date.

“Will I see you there? It’s at six. Black-tie.” She said the last part with a coy smile and gave his worn jacket and wrinkled button-up a once over.

\---

He liked the feeling of her in his arm - all warm and lush, heart beating up against her ribs, rabbit-fast, blood blooming pink on her cheeks and thrumming right under her skin. Blue eyes narrow and fasten on her pulse, just below her ear, and he wondered how it would feel to fasten his teeth there and bite. Suck the blood up to the surface, leave a nasty purple bruise, force her to go out on stage in front of a thousand people with his mark on her neck -

Hold your horses there, big guy.

Betelgeuse caught a whiff of her perfume again and committed it to memory - he’d always associated flowers with funerals, but this specific delicate combination was distinctly _Miss Argentina_.

(He wondered what kind of flowers they’d lay on her grave).

When she stepped out of his grasp, he let her go - he was pretending to be a gentleman, after all, and he was so rarely thanked for anything that he momentarily forgot the appropriate response. “Don’t mention it,” he rasped, hooking his now-free thumbs into the belt loops of his trousers and matching her sweet, tentative smile with a ragged one of his own, and maintains it, even when she turns down his suggestion of the nearby pier. “I wouldn’t call it a traditional interview, ya know, but hey, whatever makes you feel chatty, doll, I’m there with bells on.” And what do you know, she offers another option - an exclusive invitation to a dinner, no less.

Christ, he’ll have to figure out what black tie means these days.

“Listen, Miss Tina, I can make my own fun,” he promises with a wink, “I’ll see ya there, don’t go trippin’ into traffic ‘tween now and then without me there to catch ya.” And with that, he departs, whistling tunelessly between his crooked teeth, ugly umbrella twirling cheerily overhead.

She doesn’t think it’s a date.

**_He knows that it is._ **


End file.
